


you are the smell before rain (you are the blood in my veins)

by rickyling



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/F, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Recreational Drug Use, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9496004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyling/pseuds/rickyling
Summary: “You should let yourself feel it,” Tara says, hand spreading out on Rosita’s sternum, right over her heart.“What?” Rosita struggles to breathe.“This.”AKA, the one where Rosita's searching for the beauty in the world and it comes to her in history class.





	

**Author's Note:**

> heed the warnings, my friends. there's hardly any mention of child abuse, i just put it there because daryl dixon is in the story and, well, y'know. 
> 
> this is also completely unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own, and i'll probably edit them out over the next few days, weeks, months, all that shit. i'm posting this at 11:20 pm, so don't bully me too much. 
> 
> someday i'll stop writing long ass vent fics. today isn't that day.

Rosita doesn’t believe what she can’t see. That’s why, when Daryl, sweaty and wild-eyed with excitement, boasts about having seen a chupacabra on one of his hikes, she shuts him down with an eye roll and “yeah, whatever you say, sport”. He had glared at her, paper-thin glass of normal stoicism over his face shattering to reveal childish hurt at her less-than-enthusiastic reply. After a whine about her inability to “lighten up”, she simply scoffs again and makes the point: “you were definitely high”. Needless to say, Daryl didn’t speak to her for a few days and she had to find someone else to smoke with after school.

Where Rosita lacks in blind belief, she makes up for in oversensitivity to reality. She’s the first to know about what Daryl’s father does to him when the curtains are drawn, she’s also the first to know its better to be quiet about it than bring attention to it. She is more familiar with her school’s principle than some of her teachers, her argumentative tendencies ending in bloodied knuckles and in-house suspension. Reality is far more blatant in her eyes, nothing is sugar-coated and there is nothing beautiful about any of it. Kids die and hurt, no one’s safe from suicide or overdose or rape ― anyone who tells you otherwise is the worst kind of liar, in Rosita’s opinion. No one should be given false security.

The absolute best sight is sunrises, especially spring ones. Sure, they’re hard to come by given the obscene hour high schoolers are forced to wake up, but on the odd occasion she does get to see sunrises, they blow her away. When she mentions this, Daryl huffs around the end of a cigarette and says: “I thought y’saw no beauty in the world?”

“I think these are beautiful,” Rosita argues. “They’re untouched by humans.”

“Not true,” Daryl bites back. The cigarette between his thin lips is unlit ― Rosita knows sometimes he just likes to chew on them when he’s anxious as opposed to further damaging his abused nailbeds. Daryl is anxious a lot. “They’s colored so pretty ‘cause of pollution ‘n shit.”

“Oh, right.” Rosita feels sad. “I forgot.” Rosita likes sunrises significantly less after that, despite them still being her favorite sight. She knows Daryl is aware of this and feels guilty for crushing what little optimism she had. Maybe considering it payback for the chupacabra teasing helps him sleep at night.

Now they just smoke under the bleachers by themselves and talk about all their problems. Sometimes Daryl fights people, and boy, that’s a sight to see. She likes when he fights, however needless the scuffles are. He always wins, always twists his body in unnatural and unrealistic ways, like he’s dancing. Rosita used to take dance lessons. Now she just smokes under the bleachers and talks about her imaginary problems with a boy who pretends that his very, very real ones are nonexistent.

Somehow, they make it work.

* * *

 

“You should go to history today,” Daryl says on the first day in weeks that Rosita decides to go to history. She shrugs, the metal of the lockers cold against the exposed skin on her shoulder where her baggy shirt dips. “Finals are soon,” he continues, pointlessly. She knows when finals are. “C’mon, I’ll go to math.”

“You hate math,” Rosita replies, also pointlessly.

“Yes.” Daryl’s mind is made up. “And you hate history. See you later.”

“Bye.”

Rosita goes to history.

The class looks shocked at her appearance, to say the very least. She ignores the wide-eyed stares and makes her way to the back of the class without giving anyone the attention they desperately wanted from her. By the way she keeps her head down and her shoulders hunched, it's no surprise she doesn’t notice the new face in the last row of desks that wasn’t there a few weeks prior. The stranger clears her throat.

She has chapped lips, a round nose, and short brown hair tied up in a lazy ponytail that allows too many stray ends to stick out for it to be intentionally messy. Her brown, deep-set eyes are watching Rosita with the same disbelief as the rest of the class, although their initial curiosity died down within moments. This girl, on the other hand, watches Rosita for so long she doubts she realizes she’s doing it. Almost against her will, Rosita lets a nervous laugh slip out.

“Take a picture,” She says, unintentionally harsh. “It’ll last longer.”

The girl nearly has a heart attack. “Oh my god,” She exclaims, frantic. “I’m so sorry, you’re just ― wow you’re just… really beautiful.” She goes pale as a ghost, or like she’s seen a ghost, and pretends she didn’t just embarrass herself by speaking again, almost too fast to understand: “I’m Tara, I’m new here.”

Rosita is used to being hit on. It happens almost daily (though less frequently since rumors of her and Daryl being _more than friends_ spread around the school last year), but never had anyone complimented her without an ulterior motive, such as getting in her pants. For the first time in a long time, Rosita is lost without a response to such a innocent admiration. She half expects to vomit. Thankfully nothing comes up.

“Thank you,” Rosita replies, tone light despite the world spinning under her desk. “Rosita.”

“Tara Chambler.”

“Espinosa,” Rosita offers her last name, feeling self-conscious about not doing so in the first place. Tara smiles reassuringly as if she could sense her discomfort. “I didn’t recognize you. I guess I haven’t been going to class lately.”

“This is only my second day,” Tara explains. The teacher is talking about something that’s without a doubt far less important than the way the light shining through the window makes Tara’s brown eyes gold. “This school is… interesting.”

Rosita laughs again. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” Hesitantly, Daryl on the mind, she continues: “Hang out with me after school.”

Tara shakes her head. Rosita hopes it was one hell of a task. “I can’t. I already promised some other kids I would. They’re gonna show me around.”

“Who?” Rosita tries to stifle her unusual feelings of disappointment by considering the inevitability of upsetting Daryl by shoving a stranger in his face without consulting him first.

Thinking for a moment, Tara answers: “Rick Grimes, Maggie Greene, Glenn Rhee, I think. Do you know them?”

Rosita knows them. Rick Grimes, known also by his long-time nickname Officer Friendly, was a kid like Rosita’s worst enemy. He got his pseudonym by tattling on nearly every kid for even the slightest missteps from elementary to middle school, and only gave up the self-given title of hall monitor when the teasing and mocking names started. Rumors had it that Daryl started the nickname, but he’s never mentioned or admitted to it. Maggie and Glenn were the most stereotypical high school couple Rosita had come by: they were disgustingly affectionate even after the initial lust wore off. Rosita thought it was incredibly tragic, really; Maggie used to be quite the wild spirit, occasionally smoking and hanging with Rosita and Daryl before Glenn came into her life. Glenn was completely out of her radar and she hoped to keep it that way.

Sparing Tara all the unnecessary details, Rosita simply replies, “Yeah, I know ‘em.”

They exchange small talk until about five minutes before the bell rings and Daryl appears at the door, ignoring the teacher when she half-heartedly attempts to shoo him away. Rosita flashes him a smile, reluctant to leave Tara. Daryl raises his eyebrows in question.

“Who are your friends?” Tara asks, unaware of the moment.

Rosita shrugs. “I don’t have many. I have one.”

“Everyone has more than one friend,” Tara argues.

Anger suddenly grips Rosita’s gut. “I don’t,” She insists, standing and slinging her backpack over one shoulder. One of the straps had broken after years of use and she refused to buy a new one until the other one followed suit. “See you around.”

Rosita leaves without saying goodbye and heads straight to Daryl. She has the strange urge to wrap her arms around his skinny waist and squeeze tightly; the only thing stopping her is the audience and her knowledge of his issues with intimacy, even with her.

“You good?” Daryl is exceptionally good at reading people, spare himself, so it's a waste of breathe for Rosita to reply with a nonchalant shrug.

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

“So what? You lie about being fine all the time.” It's a low blow, but it effectively shuts him up. Lower, as to not draw more attention than already had been to them, Rosita continues: “I just don't like history, okay?”

Daryl knows it's more than that, of course he knows, and his ability to act like he doesn't for her sake is one of the reasons he’s her favorite person. “Sorry I made you go.” It's a genuine apology. Rosita wants to cry.

“It’s fine.”

Later, under the bleachers, Daryl watches through dark, unreadable eyes as she pukes in a bush right by their favorite smoking spot. The foliage is not unfamiliar with their bodily fluids; Rosita can make out some blood splatters on the dark leaves from one of Daryl’s fights. She vomits until it hurts and nothing comes out and Daryl’s rubbing her back.

“Who was tha’ girl? I’ve never seen her b’fore,” He questions, light and innocent. Mention of Tara makes Rosita want to puke more and she's grateful she has nothing left.

“Tara, she’s new.” Rosita wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Daryl gives her a stick of mint gum. “She called me beautiful.”

Daryl snorts. “Why?”

“I don't know. I hated it.”

“You loved it.”

“I know,” Rosita sighs. “That's why I hated it.”

* * *

 

The last person who called Rosita beautiful was a boy whose nose is still healing from Daryl’s fist connecting with it. He was a pretty boy, he had a nice nose before it was broken, and wavy blond hair that he liked pulling into a bun. They fucked in the baseball dugout, their old smoking place, and he covered her mouth with his hand and told her he’d never leave. He _did_ leave though, when she had dirt streaks on her cheeks and tears in her eyes. Daryl found her hours later, shivering in the cold in just her underwear, unable to find her discarded clothing. He gave her his shirt, exposing his scarred back to the stars to cover her own, and sentenced the pretty boy to death row.

That night, she fell asleep in Daryl’s bed after hours of sobbing into his pillow and begging him not to kill anyone. He leaves, comes back however many hours later with split knuckles and trembling hands.

“ _I broke his nose_ ,” Daryl had said bluntly.

“ _Hold me_ ,” Rosita pleaded, feeling cold despite the blankets and clothes Daryl layered her in. Daryl had crawled over her, pulled her back to his chest, and promised it would be okay.

Even to this day, Rosita wonders how he managed to say such a thing. Daryl is well acquainted with being left in the dirt, bloody and empty, broken and used. He’s a master at pretending he’s okay, disguising his damaged goods by fighting people and smoking and screaming at the sky. Rosita stands by and watches it go down with wide eyes and bloody nail beds. She remembers thinking, before that happened to her, that she’d never want to end up like Daryl Dixon. Now, it’s far more obvious. She always has been.

“He didn’t love you,” Daryl used to tell her daily, now he doesn’t as often. Rosita shrugs and kind of wishes he’d shut up.

“Maybe he did, you don’t know,” Rosita doesn’t want to argue about it but she does anyway just because it seems like the right thing to do. It makes Daryl furious.

“He didn’t. He ―”

“People who love you can hurt you,” Rosita testifies. They’re sitting on the roof of the school, during what she thinks is third block. She should be in history right now.

“ _That_ ,” Daryl enunciates the word so forcefully that Rosita has no choice but to look at him. “is more than just _hurtin’_. Fuck you, Rosita.”

She flinches, he doesn’t apologize for making her do so. The wind blows and she tucks her knees up, resting her chin on them and chewing on the sleeve of her sweater. Daryl sucks on the end of an unlit cigarette, loose strands of his hair getting caught in the breeze.

“You don’t know what love feels like,” Rosita says, quiet. Neither does she.

“I know what hatred feels like, though,” Daryl points out. “Better than anyone.”

Rosita thinks about Tara’s brown eyes and pink lips; she thinks about the pretty boy who told her not to tell anyone, whose nose shattered under Daryl’s fist. She thinks about Daryl himself, who chews on cigarettes instead of lighting them and has black eyes more often than not.

Underneath them, the bell rings, sounding throughout the school. Had Tara been looking for her? Rosita had been looking for Tara.

* * *

 

On a Friday night during a football game, Tara joins them under the bleachers. Shockingly, Daryl takes well to her appearing alongside Rosita; he was already a bit high when they show up, so he just smiles a lopsided smile and welcomes them with a joint. Tara surprises them both by how easily she inhales and blows out smoke rings towards the sky.

Rosita knows about rings. One of her ex-boyfriends gave her a ring with a ruby on it, and it helped her split the lip of a boy who got too handsy at a party. She felt guilty about getting so much blood on the once-shiny metal, but the boy who gifted it kissed her passionately and said he'd never seen something hotter. His name was Abraham, his hair was bright orange and he had the personality to match. With him, Rosita was worshiped. He was probably the only lover who actually cared about her ― or did the best at acting like he did. Long gone now, Abraham is a fleeting memory marked by a slight tan line on her ring finger and a patch of skin on her neck where a hickey once was.

After Abraham, it's Spencer. He was _gorgeous_ , but stupid. Nothing more than a way to get over a broken heart. They fucked in the back of his car, handprints on the windows like Jack and Rose, and he murmured loving words against the skin on her neck. In lieu of an afterglow, Rosita opened the door and puked, blamed it on the beer and weed, and never called him back. Using someone like she'd been used so many times before didn't agree with her stomach, apparently, because not long after she came down with a stomach bug and was bedridden for a week.

Tara listens with wide eyes when Rosita tells her all of this. Daryl watches with heavy eyes, half open and unfocused, brilliant blue. He's heard these stories countless times.

Daryl has his own share of stories, but Rosita doesn't ask him to tell any because they make her sad. She doesn't want to be sad tonight, and she certainly didn't want Tara to be exposed to such a brutal history, so after Rosita’s spoken until her throat hurts they lull into silence.

Tara breaks it when she pulls out her phone. “My friend Glenn wants to join us,” she says, like they didn't know who Glenn was. “He says he has weed.”

Daryl shrugs like he doesn't care either way ― hell, he most likely didn't. He wasn’t normally a tired high, so Rosita suspects there’s another reason why he’s picked tonight to be so much more stoic than usual. Rosita just hums in approval and returns the smile Tara gives her.

Glenn Rhee joins them moments later, bringing with him a gram of weed, a plate of french fries, and the smell of concession stand that's disgusting yet intriguing.

“So, what,” Glenn says around a fry. “Is this your spot?”

Daryl growls, spell broken. “Yeah, so don't get no ideas.”

Glenn grins at him. “Oh, believe me, I won't. Daryl, right?”

Daryl nods, holding eye contact with the other boy for another second before they're silent again.

The football game goes into overtime. With Glenn’s added presence, something sparks in Daryl and he starts sharing his stories; mild ones, silly little things that won't scare off their new companions. It's always just been the two of them, but Rosita knows that since they've had a taste of new friendships, being stripped of them would be damaging. They aren't good at this stuff, Daryl and Rosita ― that's why it's always just been the two of them sharing stories they've already told a million times over. _Some therapy, huh?_ Daryl’s joked before, nose bleeding and puke on his tongue. Rosita had nodded. Some fucking therapy.

Glenn is not scared by Daryl’s stories. If anything, he leans closer to the boy, eyes just slightly widened as he listens. Tara is silent, expressions unreadable, taking every word Daryl gives them and storing them in her memory. For what? Blackmail? Not likely.

Daryl tells them about the Chupacabra: Glenn believes him earnestly, Tara laughs like it was a joke. Daryl pouts and says it isn't, and she apologizes but still hides a glowing smile behind her hand.

When the final buzzer sounds and the game ends, and Daryl’s spoken enough to give himself laryngitis, Glenn declares to him: “I think I wanna be your best friend.” Daryl is at a loss on how to react, not used to admiration over disregard. “Can I have a ride home?” Glenn goes on to ask, and Daryl nods so quickly Rosita’s afraid his neck will snap. It doesn't snap, so the two boys say their goodbyes and leave Rosita, Tara, and a half-smoked joint under the bleachers.

“We should get going, too,” Tara says, contradicting herself by plucking the blunt out of Rosita’s fingers and inhaling.

Rosita is inclined to agree. They didn't think to bring blankets this time, and the cold air of early spring seeps through her jacket. Her bones are sore from sitting on the concrete, her knees popping and snapping when she accepts Tara’s outstretched hand and is pulled to her feet. They walk to the edge of the parking lot, watching groups of kids pile into vans and cars and drive off, some celebrating victories, others weighing their losses. Rosita envies them, hates them ― how can your only loss be a football game?

In the artificial yellow light of a street lamp in a near-empty parking lot, Tara asks: “Do you have any stories about girls?”

Rosita has stories about girls. “At a party in sophomore year, a girl with a tattoo on her stomach shoved a needle dipped in pen ink into my thigh. She made a butterfly, an ugly one, and I sucked on her fingers and begged her to touch me.” Rosita shrugs. “I think she was a college girl, and she was on drugs. Maybe coke? Her mouth tasted like alcohol when she kissed me and I didn't kiss her back.”

Tara is listening with horrified eyes. Her expression only eggs Rosita on: “The tattoo she gave me got infected and my father found out. He was angry about it, but what _really_ pissed him off was the fact that a _girl_ gave it to me. I was sent to church where a nun split my knuckles with a ruler on the first day, and when I refused to go back, I had to sleep at Daryl’s house for a week.”

Rosita is crying, trembling with re-awoken memories, which makes Tara’s kiss taste like salty tears and french fries. Rosita kisses back like she doesn't know how ― fuck, she _doesn't_ know how. Tara kisses soft and slow and scared, which makes Rosita’s tears flow even faster, and when she opens her mouth and tastes Tara’s tongue on her own it's impossible to not sob into it. Tara pulls back, worry on her brows.

“Are you okay?” She asks, hands finding Rosita’s cheeks.

Rosita nods, presses into the touch, completely unfamiliar with it. “Yes.” _No._

* * *

 

Daryl doesn't come to school on Monday. Or Tuesday. All the way through Friday he’s missing, and Rosita is approached by Glenn, Tara, a handful of teachers about his whereabouts. Rosita tells the truth: she doesn't know for sure. _He’ll be back_ , she says, tried to ignore her paranoid mind telling her that he's lying beaten in a ditch somewhere (or a dugout).

On Friday night, Rosita smokes with Tara under the bleachers. She makes a mental note to apologize to Daryl when she sees him again, after all, this is _their_ spot.

Under the metallic tapestry of the bleachers, Tara kisses Rosita again, mouth cold and although Rosita’s body flinches away from it, she kisses back until the friction warms their tongues. They've hardly smoked tonight, the weed is forgotten. Tara laughs, gently, when Rosita whines into her mouth. Its messy, uncoordinated. Rosita blushes pink when their teeth knock together, when their noses brush, when she readjusts herself to press closer and her hand slips off Tara’s thigh.

“It’s cold,” Tara murmurs, lips against Rosita’s. “Come back to my house.”

Rosita shivers for other reasons than the chilly breeze. “Okay.”

“I should warn you,” Tara says when they're walking; neither of them drove to the bleachers tonight, Rosita because she needed the time to think, Tara because her car breaks needed fixing. “I’m…” She seems to falter, her pace slowing and her words dripping off her tongue to hang like stardust in the air around them. Rosita waits for her to continue, in absolutely no rush, her mind elsewhere (like where the _fuck_ is Daryl?).

Tara decides she wants to talk about something different. “What are you looking for?”

“Right now?” Rosita stops walking under a streetlight. “Nothing, why?” Tara stands still, watching, waiting for an answer Rosita can't give. “I'm worried about Daryl,” Rosita attempts, telling the God honest truth, but still Tara’s blank expression does not yield.

“I don't mean right now, _specifically_ ,” Tara mutters, arms crossed over her chest. “I mean ―” Her hand waves in an eccentric motion, at the absurdity of trying to articulate her thoughts. “in general. You always look like you're… searching for something.”

Rosita sighs, adjusts her jacket around her slim form. “Beauty, I’m looking for beauty in the world, I think.”

“It's all around you.”

“Is it?” Rosita challenges, making a point to gesture at their surroundings. There's not much to look at. The suburbs of King County were not eye catching, they stood on a cracked sidewalk in the poor part of town, weeds growing out of the slits in the concrete. Trash was flattened on the road and at their feet, the objects indistinguishable from one another. It was _ugly_. “Nothing touched by humans is beautiful, and everything is fucking tainted.”

Tara’s visage is utterly heartbroken. “You're beautiful,” she insists, again, and Rosita is still not used to how her mouth forms the shapes of those words. Suddenly, she feels like puking again.

“I’m not,” Rosita growls. “You know how many humans have had their hands on me, whether I’ve let them or not? I’m the _furthest_ thing from beautiful, Tara.”

“By your standards,” Tara snaps.

Rosita doesn't want to argue. She wants to kiss Tara and search for that beauty inside her mouth with her tongue and all over her body with her hands. So she does. She kisses Tara gently, still sloppy, still unsure of how to kiss someone back. Tara hums, returning pressure but not moving her lips. They break apart and walk the rest of the distance to Tara’s house in silence.

When they get there, all the lights are off, and there's no cars in the driveway aside from Tara’s. Her parents aren't home, she makes an offhanded comment about them visiting her sister at college, and opens the door with quiet squeals of the hinges. Rosita follows her in, hand in hand, glancing around the interior decorating with wistful eyes. It was quaint, not completely moved into, but still cleaner than any house Rosita’s been in before. Not that she has experiencing visiting other people's homes: Daryl’s often, and Abraham’s occasionally when they were together. It's different, the domestically of Tara’s home. Rosita feels like puking.

Tara doesn't take her to her bedroom like Rosita expects. No, she takes her past there, through a window and along a perilous climb up to the roof. Rosita keeps it to herself, the irony of coming home because it was cold only to sit on the roof, disguising a laugh as a cough.

“Why're you takin’ me up here?” Rosita murmurs when they settle, sat close together for warmth, hands still clasped.

Tara takes her time responding, laying on her back on the cold, scratchy shingles and encouraging Rosita to do so as well. She folds her arms behind her head, taking her hand from Rosita’s, and hums thoughtfully. “For this,” she says vaguely. It occurs to Rosita that she's talking about the stars. “Look how beautiful they are.”

Rosita’s only been stargazing one other time, with Daryl and a stray dog they found exploring the train tracks. They laid out on an abandoned caboose, Daryl crying, bleeding, bruising, Rosita contemplating and not even trying to offer soothing words. Constellations danced above their heads and Daryl counted each and every individual star and pondered his mortality and told Rosita he was determined to kill himself. Three years have gone by and he's never mentioned it again.

This time, it's different. Tara isn't crying, bleeding, bruising ― she's just watching Rosita with soft eyes. She's an adjective Rosita won't apply to her because she doesn't believe in it, but she comes pretty close. The stars… they're beautiful.

“They've never been touched…” Rosita says outloud, unintentionally. Tara smiles, plays with a strand of Rosita’s hair.

“Neither have I, you know.”

Rosita blinks. “What?”

Tara is blushing a pretty pink, avoiding Rosita’s eyes when she says: “I’m a virgin.”

A surge of _something_ takes Rosita’s entire body and soul in its grasp, such an intense feeling that it's a wonder she doesn't fall off the roof and tumble down to her death. Except, she _is_ falling down, down, down with no net awaiting her at the bottom of whatever this is, and she's going to land and break every damn bone in her body. This fall will kill her. It's comparable only to the time she fell out of a tree at a young age and broke her leg. The sensation of free falling is indescribable. After vowing to avoid climbing to such heights ever again, she figured she'd never experience it ever again. But now, here, on completely stable ground, Rosita feels it again, curdling her stomach, clutching her throat, choking her until the edges of her vision go black.

Tara is untouched by humans. Tara is _beautiful_. Rosita’s found it.

She doesn't realize she's crying until Tara’s hugging her, and by then she decides she wants to do something different. Rosita tugs until Tara’s body is over hers, enclosing her in warmth and safety. Tara makes a noise of surprise in her throat that Rosita swallows with her mouth, kissing her until her lungs ache. Rosita is not used to consensual love, whenever she's been in this position before, it always ends with crying and Daryl breaking someone’s nose. Their hips move together, alighting a fire somewhere in Rosita’s belly, and the panic comes.

“Rosita,” Tara gasps, breathless. Rosita is still crying, an ugly cry, snot and tears on her face and bile rising in her throat. “Rosita ―”

The world spins and the only steady thing is Tara. Blood taste fills her mouth, floods her tastebuds, rids her of the taste of Tara and it does nothing to soothe the terror her body is succumbing to. She's back in the dugout with the pretty boy and the worms and the dirt and Daryl is missing and can't save her. No guardian angel, no voice, nothing, nothing, _nothing_ ―

“Rosita!”

Their hips still, Rosita’s breathing again, gasping cold night air into her lungs. Tara is kissing over her face and neck, every inch of exposed skin, humming a lullaby while Rosita comes down from her panic attack. She's so tired it doesn't even occur to her that she should be embarrassed, triggering herself like that. Moments go by filled with Tara’s chaste kissing and Rosita tasting dirt and blood.

“You okay?” Tara asks when Rosita’s breathing goes back to normal.

“No,” Rosita chokes out, telling the truth. “No.”

“It'll be okay,” Tara promises, just like Daryl had. How could they lie to her like that? “I've got you.”

“Can ― can I tell you something?” Rosita asks, breathing hard yet hardly breathing.

“Of course, beautiful, of course.”

Rosita tells her about the dugout. Tara listens, doesn’t move her body from off of Rosita’s, which makes her tears fall onto her face and mingle with her own. It’s hard, talking about it with someone when she was completely sober. She clenches her thighs together and curls her toes against the cold biting through her shoes. There’s a not-metal taste in her mouth, threatening to overflow into vomit. The bile just forms words and she keeps talking, trying to put what she’s feeling into words, regardless of if she’s ruining her entire relationship with Tara in the process. Hell, she probably was. When she’s finished, and Tara’s been quiet long enough to scare her, she says: “I want ― I’m tired.”

“Do you wanna come inside?” Tara offers, lips by her ear.

She does. “No,” she lies. “I wanna go find Daryl.”

Tara tries to hide the hurt in her eyes, Rostia can tell, and it almost kills her. “Rosita, it’s freezing, it's almost one in the morning ―”

“I wanna go find Daryl,” Rosita repeats, more forceful. Tara sits back, separating their bodies. Rosita’s never felt more cold. Gently, hesitantly, Rosita presses her lips to Tara’s, gentle and chaste. Tara kissing back awkwardly, like she didn’t want to or she wanted to do so much more, but she just fumbles with the middle ground until Rosita divides them again. “Goodnight, Tara.”

“Goodnight, Rosita.”

Rosta scrapes her knee climbing off the roof. Her jeans tear, her skin stings a little bit, and the cold certainly doesn’t help. It reminds her of when she fell of a bike when she was younger and trying to learn. The very innocence of the memory, paired with the prickling of the wound, makes her feel sick. Nevertheless, the pain is easy to ignore: it doesn’t even compare to the pain of leaving Tara up on the roof, alone except for the stars.

* * *

 

The ring sounds once, twice, three times before Daryl picks up, sounding like he just woke up. The sound of his voice, however dull and uninviting, almost makes Rosita cry.

“Hey,” she breathes into her phone, sitting down on a curb in the middle of a neighborhood she isn’t familiar with and lighting a crushed cigarette. It takes a few tried before the flame catches; her fingers are too numb to properly use the lighter. “Where the hell have you been?”

Rosita imagines Daryl shrugging before he realizes she can’t see him. “I dunno. Around.”

“Are you okay?”

“M’fine.” He was lying. “Why’d y’call? Its like one am, man.”

“I miss you,” Rosita says, a shiver in her voice. A car drives past her, headlights practically blinding. “Is that not a good enough excuse?”

Daryl laughs softly. “No, s’fine.” Rosita hears him shifting around. “Do y’wanna come over? Or I’ll meet you somewhere?”

Rosita shakes her head. She doesn’t feel like explaining why she’s sitting on a sidewalk at one in the morning.  “No, I just wanna talk on the phone.”

“Okay, what’s on yer mind?”

Her belly fills with warmth at the uncharacteristically honeyed tone his voice adopts. “Tara.” Daryl sighs on the other line. Figuring she was already this fucked up, she tells Daryl everything. The kisses, the memories, the panic, the feeling she couldn’t put her finger on. “Falling,” She murmurs. “Free falling…”

“Falling in love,” Daryl clarifies.

Rosita pukes. Daryl sings a lullaby while she vomits on the side of the road, nothing but water and traces of blood coming up. Tara is sunrises, distant stars, pictures of Pluto, Daryl’s bedhead, everything Rosita’s ever found beautiful. “Daryl,” She whines, pained and breathless, like he could do something. “I don’t ― I don’t want to be in love ever again.”

“I know, R, I know.” Daryl is crying, she can hear it in his voice. Daryl is always crying, Rosita is always puking.

“Why her?” Rosita questions, laying back on the dirty, dirty sidewalk. It hurts her head, her back, her phone clatters to the asphalt beside her ear. Her cigarette almost catches her hair on fire.

“We don’t get t’pick who we fall in love with,” Daryl murmurs. “If we did, heartbreak wouldn’t exist.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Maybe. If we don’t hurt, we don’t heal.”

Rosita wishes she went to Daryl’s house. She’d way rather be in his bed than this fucking sidewalk. If she could be anywhere, though, it’d be in Tara’s arms. They don’t talk for a long, long time. Two in the morning comes and goes with a suffocating silence, and Rosita occasionally wonders if Daryl’s fallen asleep. But then he starts singing a song, to show her that he’s right there, and Rosita cries.

“Rose, come here,” Daryl begs when light appears over the horizon.

“Can we go get breakfast?”

Daryl sighs. “Sure, sure. Where do you wanna go?”

_Anywhere but here._

* * *

 

“So,” Daryl says as he slips into the booth across from Rosita. “Y’wanna tell me why you spent the night on a sidewalk?”

Rosita takes her time replying. They met at a small diner that wasn't all that great, hardly basic, with a pastel color scheme and a waitress who wouldn't sit still. She was awfully distracting, but she made up for it by being friendly and cheeky. Rosita wondered if she became a waitress if she'd be like that, too.

“I wanted to,” She finally answers.

Daryl frowns. “Ya need to stop hangin’ out with me, you're startin’ to act like me.”

Rosita can't tell if he's joking or not, her eyes widen in shock. “What?”

“S’not a good thing,” Daryl sighs, running a hand through his hair. It becomes messier, falling over his forehead and sticking up in odd places. “You're better than this, Rose―”

“Am I?” Rosita challenges, tone harsher than she intended. “We’re the _same_.”

“No.” Daryl shakes his head. “We aren't.”

His expression is unreadable when Rosita says, quietly, “Just… don't joke about that, okay? You’re my only friend.”

“I’m not.” A smile tugs at Daryl’s lips, more so on the left side of his face than on the right. “At least, not anymore.”

“You are. Please, don't kid about that.”

Daryl takes Rosita’s hand in his, pressing his thin lips to her chapped knuckles. His breath ghosts over her skin as he murmurs, voice soft like coffee creamer: “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” She breathes, retracting her hand. Daryl smiles and waves the waitress over. “I’m not that hungry,” Rosita lies, to Daryl rather than her. He rolls his eyes, disbelieving, and orders a stack of pancakes for them to share and two glasses of orange juice. “There better not be pulp in those,” Rosita mutters when the friendly waitress skips off.

Daryl laughs, like rain on the top of a tent. “I’ll send it back if it does.”

* * *

 

Tara laughs in disbelief. “You do _not_ know how to shoot a gun.”

Rosita nods, biting her bottom lip in attempts to hide her smile. “I do, my Dad taught me. He keeps one in the house at all times.”

“Why?” Tara says, gaping. They don't talk about Rosita's parents a lot, if at all.

Rosita shrugs. “You’ll never know when you're gonna need it.”

* * *

 

“You should let yourself feel it,” Tara says, hand spreading out on Rosita’s sternum, right over her heart.

“What?” Rosita struggles to breathe.

“This.”

* * *

 

“I can still feel his hands,” Rosita gasps, terrified. “ _Everywhere_ ―”

“Let mine replace them,” Tara begs.

Rosita rips away like she's been shot. “They can't.”

Daryl paces like a caged animal, the bleachers his metal bars, his metaphorical hackles raised. The weed does nothing to calm him tonight, it is just extra fuel poured onto his fire. He scares Rosita like this, completely uncaged.

“I’ll kill him,” He growls, low in his bruising throat, gums bleeding. It takes everything for Rosita to not choke out a weak _please, please, please_.

Tara isn't scared of Daryl, thank God. She's the only one in a right state of mind, gathering Rosita’s head in her lap and stroking through her hair. A lullaby flows off her tongue, all smoothe like molasses, twinkling like fairy lights. Rosita buries her face in Tara’s warmth, sobbing and pretending she can't hear Daryl splitting his knuckles open on the sharp corners of the bleachers.

* * *

 

Rosita hasn't slept in her own bed in weeks. She alternates between Tara’s, curled up under comforters and her love, and Daryl’s, sobbing and clawing at her skin while he lays on the floor, bloodshot eyes staring, unblinking, at the ceiling. Every once in awhile, one of her parents will call or text, and she’ll shoot back a quick _staying at Daryl’s_ and that's the end of it. No _are you okay_ or _we miss you_ , just a read receipt. Daryl doesn't mention it, he's learned not to, bless his broken soul, but Tara is not Daryl.

“Don't your parents wonder where you are?” She asks, lips against Rosita’s shoulder, dry and chaste.

Rosita hums, pressing back into Tara’s warmth, not in the mood to discuss her parents. Tara squeezes her hips, running her mouth over her neck as if to coax her into answering. Rosita gives in only when she feelings nibbling behind her ear and she can't help but snort out a giggle.

“Mm, no,” Rosita says, blinding reaching an arm behind her to grab at Tara’s shoulder. She miscalculates and ends up carding her fingers through her messy hair, earning herself a pleased purr. Rosita laughs, scratching at Tara’s scalp once to drag that sound out of her again. “They don't really care.”

She can feel Tara’s frown against her skin. She’s silent for a few moments, not even responding when Rosita tries tugging on her hair. Rosita sighs in defeat, dropping her arm back to lay by her face, muscles arching slightly from the awkward angle.

“Hey,” Tara says suddenly, sounding determined. She places her hand on Rosita’s shoulder, urging her to roll over into her back, and hovers over her.

“Hey,” Rosita echoes, confused. Tara smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to Rosita’s lips, so, so gentle.

“I love you,” Tara says in the little space between them. Rosita’s heart swells, and with it the panic turning over in her gut, but she doesn't run. She just kisses Tara with all she has, tangling her hands in her hair and arching up into her touch.

Tara’s hand travels up and down her sides, over her ribs, tickling and feather-light. It never travels below her waist, never applies too much pressure, never leaves her with bruises or scrapes. Rosita cries, pulling Tara flush against her, hugging so tightly she's afraid she’ll pop.

Tara breaks away to kiss down the length of her body, hands in her wake, chaste and followed by the occasional accidental brush of her tongue. “He’s gone now, I’m here.” She repeats it as she continues her quest to own Rosita’s body, _I’m here, I’m here,_ so odic and rolling off her tongue while Rosita struggles to breathe.

The feeling is back, the one Daryl put a name to with his honeyed Georgia drawl. Free falling, crashing through the branches of an oak, the ground approaching too fast, not fast enough. Rosita is looking up at the sky as she plummets, reaching with futile efforts for the stars. Is there a net below her, ready to break her fall? She’s not even sure if she wants there to be. Maybe this fall will kill her, the others haven't, even when she landed in the foxhole belonging to the little league and broke every bone in her body.

Something tips over, spills over the brim of her soul and Rosita’s gasping out through her tears: “I love you, I love you, I love you.” And Tara is everywhere and nowhere all at once and just like that Rosita knows she's found it ― whatever _it_ was. Tara embodies it.

* * *

 

And just like that, life goes on.

Daryl shows up to school with his normal array of bruises and cuts and Tara and Rosita skip history to make out in the bathroom. Finals approach over the horizon but they blow off studying to smoke under the bleachers and talk about their problems. Rosita finds that Daryl’s the one doing the talking those nights. He babbles and moves his hands in gestures that are eye-catching and, if your mood was anything by great, irritable. Some nights it’s just Daryl and Rosita, some nights it’s just Rosita and Tara, and some nights it’s no one and Rosita wonders if the bleachers are lonely.

Tonight, thankfully, it’s all three of them and Glenn.

“How long have we known each other,” Tara murmurs, gentle as the fingers running through Rosita’s hair.

“Few weeks,” Rosita answers, unsure, and Daryl snorts. Rosita glares at him, half tempted to throw the nearest object (her shoe) and his head. “What’s funny?”

Daryl shakes his head, sharp teeth poking out of the smile he was trying to hide. “Nothin’, yer jus’ cute, the two of you.”

Rosita settles again, warmed to the core by her friend’s approval that she didn’t know she wanted until that moment. Daryl and Glenn share a joint, talking in low voices about subjects Rosita couldn’t pick up on, and Tara keeps playing with her hair and occasionally pressing kisses to her face. On slow nights like this, when Daryl has no one to fight and no stories to tell, they go home early, if you’d consider two in the morning early. Glenn is always the first to abandon their post, muttering off handed excuses about his parents and how he’d be killed if he was caught being out that late.

Daryl, like Rosita and Tara, walked tonight. They go their separate ways, and Rosita’s heart tugs just slightly when he pulls her into one of his rare hugs, tells her to be safe and check up with him in the morning. _Love you_ he says into her temple, breath warm and smelling like skunk. _Love you, too_ Rosita replies, smooshed into his chest. Rosita wishes she went back with him. Maybe things would’ve ended up differently, and she misses him. But she doesn’t go back with him, she walks backwards away from her friend, hand lingering in his, smiling as he pulls out an unlit cigarette to suck on.

“Have a good night,” Daryl calls, waving and disappearing into the shadows of the ghetto.

“You too,” Tara says back to the darkness. Rosita grasps her hand, can’t help but press her borderline splitting smile to Tara’s.

“I love you,” Rosita says in a sing-song voice.

“I love you,” Tara echoes into the kiss, deepening it and running her tongue along Rosita’s bottom lip. “C’mon, baby.” she tugs on their joined hands. “It’s late.”

They make it back to Tara’s house and up into her room through her window without being detected, which was shocking considering the amount of noise they were making. Between giggles and moans, they didn’t stay silent for more than a few moments. In Rosita’s defense, Tara made it awfully hard when she kept biting on her lip like that. Not that she was complaining. They flop unceremoniously onto Tara’s bed, Rosita straddling her thighs and lavishing her tan skin with kisses and bites.

“We should get married,” She says between pecks, “and run away.”

Tara chokes on a laugh that transforms into a moan. “Yeah? What about - ah - finals?”

Rosita pulls back to give her a disbelieving glare, only to see her shaking with mirth. Rosita rolls her eyes at the (unfunny) joke and returns to her previous position, nibbling on the sensitive area behind Tara’s ear. Tara arches into her touch, breathless and squirming. Rosita continues her assault until Tara is a mess beneath her and her neck is riddled in hickeys.

“Babe,” Tara huffs when she finally eases up. “How am I supposed to hide these?”

“Turtlenecks?”

“Those are so _ugly_ , I hate you.”

“You don’t.” Rosita smiles, shark-like, and shoves her fingers under the hem of Tara’s shirt. The other girl yelps at the coldness, wincing away from the touch, and now it’s Rosita’s turn to laugh. She doesn’t for long, though, opting to press her lips against Tara’s and murmur, while gently tugging on her shirt: “Is this okay?”

Tara grasps Rosita’s wrists, firmly but gently, and forces her to make eye contact she was trying to avoid. “Are _you_ okay?”

Rosita considers flat out lying just so she could get rid of the aching between her legs, but her loyalty to Tara overweighs her lust tremendously and she just sighs and deflates, hanging her head and resting her forehead on Tara’s shoulder. She breathes deep ― in, out, in, out ― forces herself to focus on the way Tara’s rubbing circles into her hip with her thumbs. Rosita slips slightly, accidentally grinding their hips together, and the moan that’s dragged out of Tara’s throat sounds so, _so_ good that suddenly Rosita decides that honesty is the best policy.

“This,” Rosita punctuates her point by grinding again, slower, harder. “Will make me okay.”

Tara whines again, flushed and panting, regaining herself only to say breathlessly: “Love, only if you’re sure―”

“Only if _you’re_ sure,” Rosita insists, and when Tara opens her mouth again, no doubt to continue the back and forth, Rosita cuts her off with a kiss that she pours all of her love into. It effectively shuts her up, minus another moan, and Rosita pulls back long enough to say, “I’m sure,” And then she’s shoving her tongue down Tara’s throat.

Tara bites down on her bottom lip, throwing Rosita off long enough to flip them over so she’s hovering over Rosita’s body, hands trailing down her sides to her hips and then back up to tangle in her hand and cup her face. Tara’s deft fingers find the button on Rosita’s jeans, and when she’s arching up to aid in the struggle of pulling them off, all Rosita can feel is Tara, and when she grasps her hands for a solid hold when wet kisses are placed along her inner thighs, she feels crisp white sheets instead of dirt.

For the first time in a long, long time, Rosita is sure.

* * *

 

Tonight, it’s just Rosita and Daryl. Just like the old days when everything was darker and colder. Daryl isn’t looking at Rosita, just up at the very few visible stars. Rosita wonders what he’s looking for, because he’s staring at them with his complete focus, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set into a frown. Rosita misses him. He’s right there, within arms reach, but she misses him. She misses Tara, too, who’s out visiting her sister at college

When she tells Daryl this, he turns and says around a joint: “So the brakes on her car are fixed?”

Rosita shrugs. “I guess.”

Daryl’s frown becomes somehow deeper, worry lines creasing his forehead. His unease momentarily stirs fear in Rosita’s gut, but she forces it down. Tara wouldn’t do anything that would put her life in danger.

“So,” Daryl says, shifting so he’s facing Rosita instead of the stars. It’s a full moon, casting him in silver light, all soft shadows on his messy hair and highlights on his cheekbones. Rosita’s tempted to reach out and trace the bruises under his eyes. “Do y’believe I saw a Chupacabra yet?”

Rosita half chokes on a laugh, having expected a deep, psychological question or, at the very least, a story. Just not _that_. “What? No.”

Daryl sighs. “Why not?”

“Because,” Rosita fails at stifling her giggle. “Daryl, they don’t exist.”

Daryl jabs the end of the joint in her direction, flicking ash on the ground near her foot, lip poking up in a sneer. “Ya didn’t believe beauty or love existed, either, but here y’are.” Rosita falters, startled by the harshness of his tone. “Jus’ ‘cause you ain’t seen somethin’ yerself doesn’t mean it don’t exist,” Daryl hisses. “You saw that yerself.” He finishes by taking another hit, completely disregarding the rules of puff, puff, pass.

A tension filled silence falls over them, threatening and uncomfortable, while Rosita ponders his words. She’s finding it hard to breathe, wishing she had the energy to tell him off, that a mythical creature’s existence didn’t compare to the struggle of overcoming trauma, because if anyone should know how that feels, it would be him. Amidst her internal battle, Daryl is sitting criss-cross with his eyes closed and his face angled towards the sky, looking content. Rosita knows better than to think he actually is. _Fuck him_.

“It’s not the same,” Rosita manages to grind out, shocked that her teeth aren’t shattering under the force of her locking her jaw shut.

“It _is_ ,” Daryl barks back, peaceful bubble burst. “I believe in shit I ain’t ever seen for _you_ , why don’t you believe in _this_?”

It occurs to Rosita that he’s talking about love, and a force puts her heart in a deathgrip. She doesn’t answer his question. “I miss you,” she chooses to murmur instead, reaching out for him like she’s wanted to do all night. Her soul almost shatters when he rips his arm away with a flash of fear behind his eyes like he did around strangers. Tears blur out her vision.   _I’m not a stranger_.

“I’m right here,” Rasps Daryl, but the faraway look in his blue eyes was completely polarizing.

“Are you?”

“Are _you_?”

“I’ve always been right here,” Rosita says, throat closed up.

Daryl laughs a short, dry, humorless laugh. Rosita hates it. “No you haven’t.”

“What? Because of Tara?”

“Fuck you, you know that's not what this is about,” Daryl snaps, patience completely gone. “Yer tricking yourself, Rosita,” He says, and when she listens well enough, Rosita can pick out a hint of fear in his voice. “Yer actin’ like everythin’s fine when you know, deep down, it's not. Yer gonna crash and burn.”

“I’m fine,” Rosita lies. “I’m fine. I just―”

“Miss me?” Daryl interrupts, blunt and sounding exhausted. The fight has left his body. “Yeah, I miss you, too.” Hesitantly, he adds: “C’mere.”

And with that, Rosita throws herself at him, crying, and he wraps her up in his arms and presses a dry kiss to her hair. He rocks them slightly while she sobs, not even aware of why she’s crying, because she can handle Daryl yelling at her, and she’s learned how to handle emotional breakdowns. Maybe she just misses Tara.

“Oh, Rose,” Daryl mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Rosita lies again.

* * *

 

Its 4:48 AM when they get the call.

Rosita’s phone buzzes when she's dosing in Daryl’s lap, startling her awake. Daryl hardly moves, having been awake the entire time. The sun is rising beyond the bleachers, the sunrise is pink and fluffy, birds are chirping in the trees surrounding them. For a few moments, Rosita basks in it, letting her phone continue to vibrate until Daryl grunts in annoyance and nudges her. She yawns, rubbing her eyes and stretching before she fumbles blindly for her phone. While she answers it, she smirks in Daryl’s direction at his messy hair and tired eyes.

The smile on her face is utterly obliterated.

Daryl grabs her phone when she drops it with a choked off sob, his eyes wide with horror. The voice on the other line is still talking, monotone and emotionless in Daryl’s ear.

“The brakes failed,” The voice said. “The car went off the road, we did everything―”

Daryl hangs up, chucking Rosita’s phone at the ground, watching it shatter like her heart. Rosita wails, scrambling at the pieces, trying to fit them back together like the broken glass was her life and it could be fixed so easily. The free falling sensation was back, but this time it was entirely different. She knew there wasn't a net waiting for her at the bottom of this fall. Just hard ground. Rosita rolls onto her back, covering her eyes to block herself out from the remaining stars. First her legs go numb, then, slowly yet all at once, her entire body loses feeling.

“They pronounced her dead at 4:30,” Daryl says, the words cutting his tongue, pulling bile up from Rosita’s throat until she's puking on the asphalt they were just sleeping on so, so peacefully. Daryl’s warning echoes in her throbbing mind: _you’re gonna crash and burn_. All of a sudden, all feeling returns to her body, and its so painful that she can’t help the screech of pain that lacerates her vocal cords.

“Tara,” Rosita gasps, breathless, to the ground, digging her fingers into the concrete until the skin rips and blood paints the pale color. “ _No_!” she shrieks, guttural, the word being ripped from her throat. Daryl doesn't throw an arm around her like she half expects when she continues tearing the skin off her fingers, he just sits there, watching, choking on silent sobs.

Rosita becomes aware that she's been sailing Tara’s name, along with a slew of _pleasepleaseplease, comebackcomeback, ineedyouineedyou_ . She thinks her lungs are gonna burst, if her heart doesn't first, and suddenly _his_ hands are all over her again, without permission, without love, without mercy, and there's no one here to kiss them away. Rosita shoves herself up off the ground with a strangled sob of agony, stumbling back a few steps and catching herself on the metal shell of the bleachers. Daryl still hasn't moved, because he can't or won't or doesn't want to, it's all the same now.

It’s the absurdity of it that makes the situation all the worse. Rosita was just with Tara, kissing her goodbye, laughing into her embrace and saying, full of love and promises _I’ll see you soon_ , and Tara had said it back, because why would they have to believe otherwise? Deep down, yet it bubbles to the surface now, Rosita knows why: because this world is fucking cruel. Kids get raped, kids get beaten by their parents, kids, apparently, _die_ and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s no such thing as beauty or goodness in the world, Rosita knew that, she knew that and that’s how she got through this life, and for a second she let herself believe that maybe, _maybe_ she had been wrong. She let her guard down, surrendered to brown eyes and messy ponytails and sloppy kisses, and had it ripped away without even giving her a warning.

She remembers the kids at the football game who acted like the loss was the worst they’d ever experience. For their sakes, Rosita hopes it is.

The sun rises in the sky, climbing over the horizon just as it does every morning.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Rosita screams at the sky, repeating it over and over until she runs out of breath and the outsides of her vision become black. Her fingernails, bloody and chipping, start tearing at her skin, ripping it and leaving puffy, red scratches in their wakes. That's when Daryl makes his move, snaps out of his trance and lunges for her, pulling her to the ground despite her cry of protest.

“Shh, baby, shh,” He begs, holding her against him with a vice-like grip. She struggles, trying to free herself, but he just holds on tighter. Rosita punches at his chest, tears at his skin until it too starts to bleed. Nothing helps, nothing makes her feel better ― but it makes her feel _something._

“I can't―” Rosita chokes on her own tears and blood.

Daryl buries his face in her hair, shushing her. “You can.”

“I _can’t_!” Rosita insists, finding a moment of Daryl’s weakness and using it to shove away from him. Daryl let's her go this time, helpless to stop her as she runs off.

She runs towards ― where? She doesn't even know where she's running, she just lets her legs take her. Even when they ache and her lungs scream for her to stop, she keeps running, all the way back to her own house. There's a second set of footsteps behind her, trailing her the entire way, and she knows it's Daryl, but she pretends it's Tara.

Tara.

Rosita wails again, destroyed, the toe of her boot catching on a crack in the asphalt. She lands hands first and feels her skin rip, but it's the realest thing she's felt in such a long, long time and she digs the heels of her palms into the sidewalk and _drags_ so the skin rips more. Gravel gets into the cuts, delivering unexplainable pain to her nerve endings, but she craves it all. There isn’t enough physical pain in the world to get rid of the emotional torment currently waging a war on her heart.

“Come _back_ ,” Rosita sobs, punching the ground and hearing her knuckles shatter. “ _Tara_ ! You fucking _promised_!”

“Rosita―”

“ _No_.” She spats, not even turning to look at Daryl. She scrambles to her feet and keeps running, mind already set on a solution.

Foolishly, Rosita hopes Daryl will give up chasing her, given his smoking induced asthma, but he keeps a solid distance from her all the way back to her house. She throws the door open, kicking it closed before Daryl could slip in behind it, and rushes into her father’s room. No one's home, or they're passed out on the couch or some other place, so she’s not questioned when she throws herself into the bedroom, locking the door behind her.

With her heart in her throat, Rosita finds the safe. She settles on the ground, back to the footboard of the bed, and sobs into her hands.

No more stargazing, no more kisses, no more storytelling, no more smoking under the bleachers. It's all _gone_ , ripped from her grasp so unfairly that her stomach turns over and she pukes again, all over the floor and her thighs. She crossed her legs, wailing as she feels his hands all over her again, prying them apart, prying _her_ apart.

“Tara,” Rosita begs, demands, sobs. “Tara _help me_ , he's here, baby, I need you! _Please_ ―”

She falls silent, only so she can hear how deathly quiet everything is. It can't be past five in the morning, her neighbors will be getting up for work soon. Or maybe not, she forgets what day it is. Slowly, she realizes she forgets what Tara tastes like, smells like, _feels_ like, and the pain is back with another choked off sob.

Fumbling with desperation, she opens the safe by remember the password. It's Rosita’s birthday.

Birds chirp outside, peaceful and serene. Rosita let's them be her lullaby.

With trembling hands, Rosita closes her eyes, imagines the cold barrel of the gun is Tara’s lips against hers and she can't hear Daryl pounding at the door, begging her not to do it.

She doesn't listen.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, lol.  
> twitter is @notmanreedus, come yell at me there.  
> love you x


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